


the Spirit of Endurance

by newandykes



Series: Long Road Home [2]
Category: Fury (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newandykes/pseuds/newandykes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"We send airplanes out first," he murmurs, "to destroy their heavy artillery. There's less chance of our boys getting killed when they're not marching in on an entire panzer division." He doesn't mention that, with 3,300 bombs being dropped, there will probably be more dead on their side than on the other. From the way Gordo is drinking and the way Boyd is bent over his cross, he'd say they already know.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Spirit of Endurance

> " _When pressure mounts and strain increases everyone begins to show the weaknesses in his makeup. It is up to the Commander to conceal his; above all to conceal doubt, fear, and distrust_ " - General Dwight D. Eisenhower

 

**July 25, 1944**

They play patty-cake with the Germans that first month, pushing them out of the North. When the five of them roll into Saint-Lô, all that remains of the quaint little town is a charred black husk. "Looks like Tripoli," says Gordo, and he's right. There are no buildings to sleep in so they set up camp in the courtyard of what must have once been a restaurant. The cobblestones have been torn up out of the ground by machine gun fire and the stink of blood still hangs heavily in the air.  

Red finds a wedge of brie in a bombed out pantry, still fresh, and some baguettes, stale. While Red meticulously toasts the latter over a tiny campfire, Gordo fiddles with his broken Zippo and Grady tries to fix _Fury's_ broken sprocket, toolbox as blue and shining as a child's toy chest. 

"Where the _fuck_ is Boyd?" he huffs, wiping his brow and unknowingly leaving a streak of black oil across the skin. 

Boyd is in the sick-tent, being all holy, and Don's there with him, being the exact opposite. He follows Boyd around between the cots, telling him he needs to leave now, needs to rest. And when Red comes to fetch him for dinner, Don uses it as an excuse to grab the gunner by the shoulder and drag him away from whoever he's been praying over. And when Boyd yells at him, Don yells back, and Red feels like he's at some incredibly awkward thanksgiving dinner. He leaves them alone to fight it out because you don't intervene when Don is yelling at someone, and you don't ask for the gravy jug when mom is yelling at dad about grain prices.

When they come back to the courtyard, Gordo is talking about a new movie they've made about Casablanca. 

"What's it called?" Boyd murmurs, sitting down.

" _Casablanca_." 

"Jesus Christ," Grady mutters, and, with him lying under the tank, they're not sure if it's the movie or the sprocket he's annoyed about. 

Binkowski, Davis and Peterson wander over and Red treats them to a slice of his  _fromage sur le pain._ Binkowski says that if Red ever feels like switching tanks, he's welcome to sit as bow gunner in  _Love 1-4._

"Buy a guy a drink first Sarge." 

Later that night, Red sees Don and Boyd talking. Don's apologising - it's clear in the way he keeps spinning Boyd around when he tries to stalk away, smiling a little skittishly. Boyd has a shrapnel nick at his neck and Red wonders how the gunner can spend so much time in the sick-tent and still be bleeding. 

Gordo catches Red looking. Says, "Sometimes Boyd doesn't look after himself, so Don's gotta do it for him." 

Don slaps Boyd around the head, using the same attention-gaining skills as an eight-year-old. 

"Well," Gordo commends, "most of the time he just reminds him." 

 

* * *

**July 26**

Davis takes him off to a secluded piece of rubble, then lays down a map.

"What is this?" Don asks, suspicion already colouring his tone.

"Bradley wants to hit the Krauts from the road." 

"Jesus. Why?" 

Stupid thing to ask. Davis gives him a dry stare before explaining. "Patton's men are tryna break through into the South but that's gonna be hard if we can't get rid of all the bastards skulking around up here. He's gonna call a meeting some time next week." 

Don digests this information, then, "Do I tell the others?" 

"Maybe not right away," Davis says, and Don can tell he's trying to be delicate about this. "It's a risky move and it might make them angry. The last thing Bradley wants is a riot." 

"They wouldn't do that." 

Davis nods, seriously but in such a way that Don is sure he isn't being believed. "That little one," Davis says, "The one with the moustache." 

"Boyd." 

" _He_ might." 

Don looks down at the ground, already feeling a headache coming on. The gunner has been hard to deal with lately and with orders for a full-scale bombing this close to an allied outpost, he might just crack. If Don had a penny for every time he's had to pull Boyd out of the sick-tent over the last few days, he'd be able to buy them all neighbouring mansions down the Champs-Élysées.

If they were in any other situation - maybe waiting to ship out back in Cairo - Don might allow this kind of behaviour. But he needs Boyd to be stable when they go into battle and there's something about the silence with which he bares the screaming of the wounded that makes Don a little worried. At least with Grady and Gordo - even with enigmatic Red - you know when something is wrong, but Don's not sure if it's divine grace or just numb terror that's allowing Boyd to keep on praying the way he is. 

"If it's all the same with you," Don says, "I'd like to tell them anyway." 

Davis shrugs wearily. "Go ahead. Don't say I didn't warn you." 

 

 

"From the road?" Gordo snaps, unable to contain himself, " _Manda huevos_ , Don, that's insane."

"Yeah." Don was going to argue, but seeing the way the four stare at him, he finds he cannot. He's not going to lie to these men. "Yeah, Gordo, it is."

"What about the civilians in the area? And the wounded soldiers?" asks Boyd with a bitter narrowing of the eyes. 

"They will be evacuated."  

"But can you be certain?"

" _Fuck_ ," he croaks, carding a hand through his hair. "Not really, no. Why should I be?"

"Oh my god," Grady mutters. He jumps off the tank and trudges away.  

"This isn't _my_ fault!" Don shouts after him, thumping his chest. The dust Grady kicks up whips back in the wind and hits him in the face. He turns around, voice breaking. " _Why_ are you all acting like this is myfault?"  

"We're not, Don," says Red. Red, who is usually so happy, cannot even muster a smile. 

"When are we moving out?" Gordo asks. 

"Some time next week. The 18th, I think." He goes over the general plan the same way Davis had, watching the men's faces fall with every word. Boyd lets his head hang, pulls out his crucifix.

In the next few days, they will likely see more allies dead than they ever will in their isolated column, inside _Fury_ and shut out from the rest of the world. Don thinks about the car crash; thinks about that engine pushing down on his back, ripping away at the skin. If he ever dies, he wants it to be from something quick and painless - a bullet to the head, maybe, or a grenade, if it hits home properly. 

"Red," he says, suddenly very tired. 

The Louisianan looks up. 

"Go get Coon-Ass will you?" 

Red does as he's told, jogging into the town with his boots rapping against the cobblestones. Grady and Red had strikingly similar childhoods - they both grew up on farms down South, both know about weather patterns, irrigation - the only difference being that Grady had never gotten off the farm. Grady never knew what it was like to live without a relation five minutes down the street, which must have made it all the more painful for him to pack his rucksack and head out to basic. Maybe it's why he's so angry. Don would be angry too if he had to leave on his little brother's birthday. 

Don sits down on the ground, rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. There are the beginnings of a beard there.

"We send airplanes out first," he murmurs, "to destroy their heavy artillery. There's less chance of our boys getting killed when they're not marching in on an entire panzer division." He doesn't mention that, with 3,300 bombs being dropped, there will probably be more dead on their side than on the other. From the way Gordo is drinking and the way Boyd is bent over his cross, he'd say they already know.  

  

* * *

  **August 18-25**

The attack, scheduled for the 18th, falls flat. They end up sitting inside _Fury_ for an hour before Davis and the others roll past, shaking their heads grimly. It's a muggy summer night and when Gordo sticks his head out the hatch, its the exact same temperature inside the tank as out. It reminds him of Tijuana but not in a good way. 

On the 24th, they roll out towards the road separating them from the Germans, only to find that their air support has been delayed drastically. Bradley cancels the fight completely but somebody doesn't get the memo, because by the time they reach Saint-Lô again, two dozen bombers are already zipping overhead.

Some of their boys are killed in friendly fire. When Don finds out that they were US Infantry he goes on a rampage - Don knew those kids from when they were still sitting in a hangar in England.  

Grady disappears that night and returns early in the morning, dark bags under his eyes. During the time he is away, Gordo and Red sit in the bow and trade stories about home. 

"I thought you said you grew up in Baton Rouge." 

"I did. For about five years, actually, and I loved it." Apparently they had to move out to the country when Red's father was laid off, and bought the farm with what little money they had left. Red shows him a picture of a girl, pretty in a plain sort of way with her hair done up in plaits. 

"Leanne," he says, "Her parents owned the property across from ours. One night, we snuck out to the barn and the next day I asked her to marry me."

"You, uh," Gordo lets out a breathy laugh, "took her for a roll in the hay?"

"Literally."  

Gordo thinks of _American_ _Gothic_ , hanging on the wall of the Art Institute back in Chicago. He passes Red his flask and watches the sad way he drinks. 

"Did she say yes?" he asks. 

"Oh yeah."

"But you didn't get married?" 

"No. I told her I'd come back for her when I'd gotten my degree. When I could support us." 

"So what happened?" 

Red tosses the flask away. "Hitler. He happened." 

 

 

By the 25th, they have cleared the Germans from the outskirts of Saint-Lô and are free to move forward. But at what price?

"Dead in friendly fire," Grady whispers, note pulled taut and white in his greasy hands. "We regret to inform you," he repeats, words coming out in a squeak of disbelief, "We  _regret..._ to _inform_ you..." 

Gordo gets up from the piece of rubble he has been sitting on and takes the piece of paper out of Grady's hands. He walks back over to Don and shoves it under his nose. Don clears his throat, rubs his eyes, then squints at the paper.  

"We regret to inform you that as of today, roughly a hundred allied soldiers have been killed in friendly fire. You will be moving out with Davis, Peterson and Binkowski at 3 o'clock. Bradley."

Boyd gets up to leave, but, at a sharp look from Red, sits back down. He stomps his feet on the ground, then lets a hand come up to cover his mouth. A pained sound escapes him, like he's been kicked in the stomach, and Don gives him a tired and sorry glance. 

"Get your stuff ready," he says. 

 

* * *

  **August 25-26**

"Puma to your right," Don yells.

Boyd toes the canon peddle and the .88 shot collides with the car, blowing the bonnet clean off in a haze of smoke. The driver manages to scramble out; he rolls around on the ground to put out a fire on his back before scrabbling away. 

"Mother _fucker_ ," Boyd hisses, but Red is already on it. He cuts the soldier in his tracks. 

Grady grabs another AP from the stash and is well into loading it by the time a trio of Panthers makes itself known, rolling over the hedgerows as if they were made of cotton wool.

"Shit," Don curses.

"Wardaddy," says Grady. The nickname has stuck since Africa. 

"On it."

It's stuck thanks to Red.

Don fumbles with the radio, opening the frequency so he can communicate with the others. " _Love 1-3_ this is  _Fury,_ we have sights on three Panthers making their way towards you."

"Engage."

"Alright but we'd like a little help."

"Pretty please," Grady hears Boyd mutter, spinning the turret round to face the first tank. He fires one shot into the big old monster and watches the flames flume out of the hatches like a fireworks display. 

"Beautiful work Bibe!" Don cries, patting the gunner on the shoulder. Boyd grins and for a moment Grady sees all their differences being forgotten in the clanking hull of the tank.  

Red spatters the German foot soldiers with machine gun fire and Grady laughs as they run towards one of the Panthers for shelter, only for it to be shot off its tracks by  _Love 1-5_.

Grady loads a phosphorus shell and they paint the countryside white and blinding, impossible to navigate. He thinks about all those dead kids outside Saint-Lô and wishes, for once, he and Boyd's positions could be switched. He'd love to get behind an .88 one day. 

 

 

Grady sleeps two hours and is then awoken by Red for watch. He goes back down into the hatch when it is Don's turn and suddenly Gordo is yelling something in his ear about food and water, salvation. " _The Seven Mercies_ , man, Caravaggio." 

"Piss off Gordo."

"Ooh, _te crees muy muy. Vales verga._ " 

"No Mexican in the tank," comes Don's muffled reply. 

They set off again and find the travel to be easier on the psyches. After yesterday's disaster fest, the Germans send no artillery their way, but the countryside is annoying. 

"They're calling it the Battle of the Hedgerows," murmurs Red, keen reader's eyes scanning the horizon for any sudden threat. 

"That so?" asks Grady. 

"Mm." 

"Better than fucking  _Casablanca_." 

Gordo says something about getting Humphrey Bogart's skinny little ass out to Normandy and seeing how  _he_ likes it. 

"He was in the navy though," says Red, starting a heated argument between he and Gordo. They often argue in Spanish because Spanish was Red's high school language. It was what got him started on learning as many as he knows now. " _Uno, dos, tres_ ," Red had sighed, "Loved that shit."

Their words are also tainted by sadness, though neither of them would admit it. None of them would. But Grady notices, because for all he shouts and carries on, Grady sees the most out of all of them. And he sees the way Gordo's laughing, quiet and wheezing like he's scared of getting noticed, and he sees the way Boyd shuts right the hell up afterwards because he's guilty for all those boys lying dead in the sick tent.

Don rarely laughs and when he does it is always at their prompting. "Hey, right Don?" they'll say, or, "Don knows all about _that_ , doesn't he...?" Grady thinks Don is never really _amused -_ he just acts that way to keep everyone calm and happy.   

He's broken out of his reverie by a gentle brush against his shoulder. Craning his neck, he sees Boyd put his legs up across the turret and let out a deep sigh. 

"Getting comfortable there Bible?" 

"You bet." 

"Alright then." Grady slips back into his seat. "Just don't blame me if you get your legs broken." 

"They're not stupid," says Boyd, all zen-like as he closes his eyes, "They know when they're outnumbered." 

"You're right," Grady says, after a pause. He knows Boyd is right and it disturbs him. Three hundred men killed outside Saint-Lô and they're still the dominant team. He can't help but think of a bee hive, dispersing soldier after soldier to fight away any predators threatening the queen. Or was that wasps?

"Rubens," says Gordo, " _Fall of the Rebel Angels_. Pushing em down, down, down into Hell. Into the dark. All those bastards."

"Shut- _up_ , Gordo," they chorus.   

All but Boyd.

Boyd, Grady thinks, is picturing it. Boyd might have, as Gordo would say, gone a little  _loco._

 

* * *

  **August 27**

 _BRDDDT_ _!_ Red's gun splutters away, mowing down foot soldiers like ducks in a carnival shooting alley. The Panthers are long gone, replaced with armoured cars and canons, kids with Howitzers holding the fort at that last and final hedgerow. 

 _BR-BR-BR_ \- Red's brow furrows. He pulls the trigger and the gun chokes again. Soldiers advance forward. 

"What's going on down there Red?" asks Don's disembodied voice, wired down to his ear from up top. 

"I don't..." Red gives the weapon a jiggle. It lets out a few pitiful blasts then falls silent again. 

Boyd plugs the main canon and the whole tank vibrates. The shot connects nicely with one of the Howitzers, blowing its operators skyward.

"Your barrel's overheated," Boyd says as he plugs the main canon. A spare pair of asbestos gloves hang from a hook by Grady's head. Gordo pops up and grabs them, throwing them back at Red.

"Change it over." 

Red nods, the bullets ricocheting off  _Fury_ suddenly very loud. He thinks about all those boys buried in the mud outside Saint-Lô, their eyes wide and staring; flies buzzing at the crusted blood around their noses, mouths. He feels bile rising in his throat and chokes it down. The com is blaring in his ear:  

" _Fury,_ this is Peterson. We've cut through the line down east. Please remain stationed until further notice." 

It's as he's slotting the old barrel under his seat that the machine gun fire spurts out from the bush in front of them, quick and unexpected. Don falls back down into the turret basket, hatch slamming shut after him. For a moment they all think he's dead for all the blood on his face. Then he moves.

"Is he okay?" Boyd shouts, eyes up at the periscope. He fires right into the bush, killing whoever had just been in there. 

"Shrapnel wound," Grady says. He eases Don into a sitting position, snapping his fingers in front of the older man's face. 

"Hey? Hey, Wardaddy? Baba-Harb?" 

The sergeant makes an uncomfortable noise. 

"You alright man?" Gordo calls. 

Don nods vaguely, wiping at the cuts on his face. There is a large one on his lip and it's bleeding horribly.

"Give me one of those Red," Grady says. Red hands up one of the gloves and Don uses it to staunch the wound, rocking back onto his heels. The gunfire has calmed sufficiently by now, but there are still a few kids running around behind the line.

Red goes to work the barrel into a safe position and hisses as his bare hand touches the hot metal.

"Careful," says Boyd. Boyd doesn't need to use the .88 anymore but he still stays put, sneaking a worried, deflated glance at their prone leader every couple of seconds.

"He'll be fine," Red says, "You just gotta make sure the wound doesn't get infected."

"Uh-huh." Boyd taps his finger on the tank's hull. "Coupla guys over there. Spray em."

Red does as he's told. The soldiers scatter, running away as he tears at them with the .33. He thinks about all those mad cows back in Louisiana, rutting themselves against the paddock fence until they died. And he remembers a fox, caught in the barbed wire surrounding one of the chicken coops. It had been there all night and it was still alive, struggling to get free. 

The spirit of endurance is fascinating sometimes. 

 

* * *

  **August 28 - September 3**

They capture Pontaubault and are finally free of the goddamned hedgerows. Beautiful town - beautiful, strong bridge. Don breathes in that industrial smell of burnt metal and crinkles his nose at the filthy water beneath them. The bridge is wide enough to take their tanks and he is reminded of the Suez, back in Egypt. He wishes he were in Egypt right now. 

Boyd tends to his wounds once they're stopped. The first-aid kit is tiny and meagre in the grand scheme of things; two bandages, several plasma packs, a needle, bandaids... Boyd makes him sit on the bridge's brick walling and hold the kit while he applies some kind of antibacterial to Don's split lip. 

"Jesus," he hisses, slapping Boyd away, "That  _hurts_." 

"Yeah? Well -" Boyd dips his finger in the little vial, then dabs, "- so does gangrene." 

Don looks off to one side, careful to keep his face still. He feels like he's at the dentist for eating too much candy.

"Can we get a move on?" Grady calls. He lies supine atop the turret basket like a cat, soaking up the sunlight.

"In a sec." Boyd reaches into the kit and takes out a little adhesive bandage; meets Don's eye as he's applying it. 

"What?" says Don, "We gonna get all lovey-dovey now?" 

"Sure." The gunner snaps the kit shut with an abrupt movement, throwing the wrapping from the bandage into the river below. "You should be fine now." 

"I was fine  _before_ ," Don groans, throwing his head back to look at the sun, "You're so fucking fussy. Does anyone else have any aches or pains they would like the good pastor here to sooth?"

But the others aren't listening. They are deeply engaged in a conversation about French culture.

" _Le petit mort_ ," Red says, "That's what they call it. _The little death._ " 

"I don't understand," Grady replies, "What does that have to do with -"

"The death of the soul, Coon-Ass. Sex so good you're born as another person."

"How did you get so smart with languages and shit?" 

Red shrugs, then casts a glance over at Don. "Wardaddy here speaks German, doesn't he?" 

Don doesn't answer, his attention focused on the tanks rolling their way into town. It still doesn't stop him from seeing Boyd's curious face. 

"That true Don?" 

Don nods discretely, something unnamable coiling up in his stomach. " _Ja_ ," he says, " _ja, es ist wahr._ " 

And they leave it at that. 

 

 

Don wasn't the only one injured in what they are now calling Operation Cobra. During their time in Pontaubault, Boyd's hands are almost permanently soaked in blood; it dries around his fingertips where they have been clasping the hands of the wounded. "Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?" he will ask, and then, hesitantly, "Do you believe in God?"

The nurses love Boyd's hands; the hands that keep their patients quiet, their jobs easier. "Corporal Swan has a remarkable ability," they say, and Don doesn't understand what they mean, because if he was lying on that cold metal table and Boyd sidled over - all filthy fatigues and red rimmed eyes - he'd probably get up and offer him a place to sit. Boyd makes too much eye contact with you and, in a trait he shares with Red, acts like he knows about something bad you have done. Don supposes its the pastor in him. 

He doesn't have the energy to tell him off anymore. 

Red and Grady go out one night to get a little death. The barracks they are staying in suddenly become much quieter but for Gordo's sleep-talk. " _No, no por favor. No puedo. N-no puedo._ " 

Don watches from across the room as Boyd gently yanks the wine bottle out of the Mexican's hands. He wanders over to the kitchen sink and pours out what remains, filling it with water and replacing it on the table beside the man's sleeping frame. 

"You gonna read us a bedtime story Bible?" says Binkowski. 

"Yeah, once upon a time there was this real asshole named Jack Binkowski," says Boyd, "and back in '41 he got his weekend pass revoked because he accidentally fired a shot into the men's bathroom." 

The other soldiers in the room laugh, stirring Gordo from his sleep. Boyd decides to leave before he takes a swig from his bottle and is already making his way towards the door - towards the wounded - when Don says, "Boyd." 

The gunner stops, turns. 

"There's a bunch of fresh supplies in the attic. Would you mind rationing them out for the five of us?" 

He nods and calmly crosses the room, stairs creaking as he makes his way upward. His face, as he turns on the landing, betrays nothing. 

"What was that about?" asks Peterson.

Don gives him a weary shake of the head in reply.

 _Tonight,_ he thinks, _the nurses will have to go without their little helper._  And then, not sure if it is him or Boyd he is referring to: _the_ _helper needs a break._

 

* * *

 

**August 30**

They have captured Avranches and are finally free to rest. There is work to do, of course. Clean up. Grady's pants are soaked with transmission fluid from all the tanks he's been fixing. He hears Red and Davis muttering something about horses but he's not sure if he wants to ask about that. 

Instead he asks Don about knowing German, quietly one day while they are sweeping rubble from the street. Don stops and wipes his brow. 

"Why does it matter?" he says, waspishly. 

"You just don't strike me as the language-learning type."

Don sees the benign look on his face and draws him in close. "My friends were German," he murmurs, "Back home. The Holzmanns, they used to live down the street from us. And the Brandts, from the hardware shop. They taught me a lot when I was a kid. We were real chummy."

"So what happened?"

Don shrugs, returning to his work. "I'm not sure. Some people were real angry when the war started. Someone put a brick through the Brandts' front window and they all left town. I don't know what happened to the Holzmanns."

Something occurs to Boyd and he straightens up, hands on his hips. The earnest, soft way Don is speaking. The little smile. 

"You're not bullshitting me are you?"

"Now why would you say that?"

Boyd peers at Don's blank face. There is a speckling of blood on his forehead where the shrapnel blast hit him, and the cut on his lip has split upwards, scar-like. He decides to let it rest. 

 

  


End file.
